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ABUNDANCE

Most of us, if we are honest, have more than we need. How blessed are the people of Belmopan to have such an abundance of produce fresh from the farm from which to choose. Like the little girl who is pilfering grapes, we should all feel guilty for not being more thankful.

CATCH N KILL

JIMMY HINES

EXPRESSIONS

BY CAROLYN CARR

My purpose in this life is to be clay in God’s hands, to be molded into something useful to Him that serves His Son and blesses other people.

It is my belief that art is not only a reflection of the soul and spirit of its source but a message to the soul and spirit of others. My message is: In the world we will have trouble but there is hope. John 16:33

I carefully cradled in my cupped hands two little white balls of fluff. Their huge black eyes stared at me unblinking. I had no idea what kind of birds they were but judged by the shape of their heads that they might be vultures. As the weeks went by, they first sprouted rust colored feathers disproving the vulture idea. Then came some softly striped plumage. It was intriguing to witness the transformation day by day from small, helpless, creatures with gaping mouths begging to be fed, into sleek, aerial acrobats capable of intercepting food on the fly.

FROM THE BLOG

SOCIAL MEDIA

Children caring for children can be a tender example of a deep affection that one has for the other but too often it is an indication of the absence of a caring adult. Children left alone to fend for themselves leads to abuse and all too often tragedy.

In the neighborhood, the old grannies are often the ones left to mind the little ones while parents are out. Out doing what, would be any one’s guess.

Oh, I’m not pointing fingers or laying blame. I will leave that to those who have better insights into the cultural, ethnic or social factors involved.

Mine is to capture the subtle gestures that belie a sense of security that may at first seem apparent. The pensive, slightly frightened look on the little boy’s face, the baby’s trusting submission to the older girl’s tugging and pulling on her hair, trying to arrange it in a style that both passes the time until someone comes home to fix a meal and keeps her occupied so as not to notice there is nothing to eat in the house.

Stairs can either be a way up or a way down. It is the large question in the lives of these children. Which way will they go? Is there an adult that has the resources and desire to help them go up and onward to a productive, meaningful life? Or, well they like so many children, become victims of abandonment and neglect?

The skinny sleeping dog is a picture of the political system that surrounds these children, suppose to be protecting the house but unmotivated to do much apart from scrounge for scraps and snooze. The doll is a picture of the reality of children without adult maintenance, love or supervision. Neglected, ratty haired children carelessly thrown aside will end up in the scrap heap of life. The slippers represent the well meaning plans and social programs intended to carry these children to a better life. Many times they only protect the bottoms of their feet but don’t do much to get them on the harder paths of life, where the sharp spines and stones lie. They are there ready to help but are often ill fitting, flimsy and somewhat worn.

There are many parents who love and nurture there children. Thankfully, most parents do with great sacrifice and determination, meet and even surpass the daily needs of their home and family. And I am believing that these three are soon to see mother or dad coming down the street with a big smile and a hug for each of them, perhaps a special treat that says “I love you” and fill their young hearts with the assurance that there is a secure future for them.

The calendar says March 1977. Belize was still a colony then. That’s the year we, my family and I, arrived. Not many people living in rural areas had electricity. There was only Radio Belize and everyone had a picture that was printed at the Government printers in austere black and white, of George Price hanging on their wall. Village life was simple and mothers were at home taking care of their children, that is the mothers that didn’t go to “the states” to try to find a better way of life leaving the granny to take care of the children.

There were few fancy things. The Marley on the floor was an exception. I, as the artist, have a special feeling for this Marley. I could have painted it with a pretty floral pattern in soft rose and white with little bits of yellow and green as accent colors. But I wanted to make a statement. You see, if some new rolls come in and you happen to be there, you get the best colors and the nicest patterns. Otherwise, you take what is left, those designated for the “cheap sale”, the items that no one else really wants. Now, I can assure you, Rosalie’s favorite color is not pea green and she has much better taste than this floor covering would indicate but sometimes you just take what you can get and make the best of it.

That is also pretty much the origin of cow foot soup. A struggling mother had to feed her children and the cow’s foot was all the meat she could get. Turns out, you add some onion, cassava, garlic, salt, pepper and thyme and you have just created the national dish. Little Henley is considering the collection of food stuffs on the side board, particularly the blood oozing from the cow foot and wondering if he will be required to eat it. He is too young to appreciate the magic of his mother’s hand, that of taking the most unsightly and even cast off items and making something not only delicious but nutritious as well.

Notice however, the fullness. The pot is full. The bread pan is full. The flour sack is full. The wood bin is full and yes, the belly is full and the hands are full.

I believe some Christmas to come, Rosalie will paint inside her house bright blue or maybe pink and make some new curtains as well. The cat won’t get away with stealing cheese off the table and the toys will all be picked up and put away. She will have a proper closet to hang her clothes instead of a broom stick for a rod in a corner. For now, though, she has to plan for the new baby. It will be soon, very soon and then it will be even harder to keep up with everything.

The best mothers, as often as not, without a man to help, know how to make the glass half full rather than half empty for their children and everyone else that depends on them. They can take the condiments and ingredients of life, the pain, joy, good times and bad. They know how to make the best of it and what is finally put on the table will sustain them.

If one enjoys drama, pathos, action, ecstasy and agony, stories that include intrigue, murder, lust for flesh and money, sagas of love so deep one would die for, don’t go to the Bliss Institute of the Performing Arts or the movie theater. Go to Castleton Race track on the 3rd Sunday of every month. There you will see episodes that will both thrill you and break your heart. Most of those stories can’t be told. They reach far too deep into the core of the human condition.

Here in this painting is assembled a full cross section of Belizean society from the wealthy business owner to the poorest street bum, the politicians, pretty girls, dandys and lackeys, rogues, drug dealers and users, wanna be’s, has beens and highly successful entrepreneurs, a collection of race day characters. Oh, yes, and there are horse owners as well.

Take for instance the guy who took the ugly, big headed, unlikely last of the lot, named her Tosoro and with commitment and determination, turned her into horse of the year. Or how about the beautiful black stallion born and bred to run who died in his stall for no apparent reason. There are horses on the track that are grandsons of Aladar, Secretariat, Native Dancer and Mr. Prospector and if you don’t know this illustrious list, shame on you.

This painting is about the back side, the side of the horse you seldom see in the high gloss horse racing journals. It is about the side of the track that only the true lover of racing likes to see. It’s muddy back there. Horse manure, swearing, bites and kicks set the tone. It’s where the jockeys, trainers and owners gather into tight little clumps to fuss over the 1200 lb equine machine that since the last race has been pampered, primped, pounded and sometimes punished into a performance specimen.

In life, as in horse racing, the daily training, the hours of preparation, the struggles, heartbreaking loss, overwhelming odds at ever making it to the winners circle are little known or appreciated by the on lookers. All they really care about is the one minute it takes to run around the track. There might even be a trophy presented with great fanfare that ultimately gathers dust on a shelf. But the back side, where the big machine driving muscles are located, the powerhouse of any true success is seldom pointed out as the beautiful part of the whole operation.

This painting is difficult because most of the people in it are actual individuals therefore it is dozens of portraits. It is also difficult because getting everything in proportion and perspective is a challenge. It breaks some of the most staunch rules of art in that there is no real focal point, no strong composition. In horse racing there is no allowance for breaking the rules but in painting and in life, sometimes that is the only way to cross the finish line.

It was late in the afternoon as I approached the house. I eyed the dog, half expecting it to come off the porch with an aggressive rush but after suspiciously regarding me, he flopped down to nap. I got the same look from the young one as her mother motioned for me to have a seat on the step. The chickens scattered and we settled into the sort of random chit chat that women resort to when their children and men are listening.

As I absentmindedly listened and replied, I wondered for whom were the magenta colored leather boots. They were much too small for Lillianna. She told me Vaseline was going out and she was so tired. She had washed all day and the baby has a cold.

I wanted to get up and go inside and ask Vaseline where he was going and what he was going to do but thought better of it and stayed right where I was wondering if there was a future for Lillianna and Joyce Lynn. Then I got to wondering why that lady in Cleveland

sent that magenta boot down to Belize in the mission box her church packed for the people of More Tomorrow.

Vaseline yelled at Lillianna and ask where his clean white shirt was.

Little Clive Jr. got to fussing. Lilianna pulled out a breast to feed him. I could hear Vasaline shuffling across the worn marley floor as he went to select a clean shirt from a bar spanning a corner of the room. Soon he was heading our way. He smelled like shaving lotion and was wearing a new pair of shoes which I noticed as he excused himself politely, stepped past me, went down the steps and headed on down the path. I thought about calling out to him that Lillianna was tired and also could use a few extra bucks to buy herself a nice dress.

I picked up the doll that was just behind me, smoothed out the matted hair and tickled Clive Jr’s instep with it’s plastic hand. A broad grin spread across his face as his mother’s nipple popped out of his mouth and milk dribbled down his chin. I hurt for her, a mother trying, faithfully minding her children and asking so little, giving so much. Her hope is her children I decided. Joyce Lynn might make better choices, have more opportunity.

Maybe the lady in Cleveland could make a difference. Some of those folks came once and helped the people in More Tomorrow repair their houses and ask for nothing in return other than for Johnny Cash to play ”When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” on his guitar. Maybe life will get easier. Maybe Vasaline will see the light and care more tomorrow.

Xunantunich is a Mayan word that means “Stone Woman”. To identify the ruin known by the same name with a female personification was not typical of the Mayan culture as they did not assign gender to their temples. However, as with most, if not all the sacred structures, the focus was on the power to generate and re-generate , or the reverence for fertility. Sex and gender is the basis of procreation, and in fact, the most basic feature of any society intending to prevail.

Although this painting was not initially intended to turn ones thoughts toward fertility or the act of fertility, the bare breasts might suggest otherwise. When our family first came to Belize in 1973 from a very reserved, even prudish farming community in Western Kansas, we had never seen women in public with exposed breasts, even when nursing children. Such activities in our culture were done discretely and out of view.

This scene would be typical of activities at the gentle rapids in the Mopan River that rush past the village of San Jose Succotz. It was common for the Mayan women to gather at the river sans blouses, to bathe themselves and their children. They did their laundry and socialized, little noticing the gaping stares of foreigners unaccustomed to seeing such things. Never was there any thought of impropriety.

The washing of clothes, hair and bodies goes beyond a mere need for cleanliness. In the developed world, the above has somehow become aligned with and akin to procreation. “Sex sells” certainly applies to cleansing products of all kinds, even laundry soap. Tooth paste, shampoo, deodorant and hair care products are all marketed under the pretense that said product will render one more desirable to mankind in general and to the opposite sex specifically. Thus one becomes a more acceptable candidate for procreation.

Did I really have all this in mind when I did this painting? Certainly not; but as I comptemplated the meaning of the word “Xunantunich” I wanted to achieve my best illustration of Mayan women and then wouldn’t you know, these women are washing clothes on stones. Wow!! This is really coming together for me, the “Stone women”. Then, in keeping with the reality of the scene, of course, what artist can pass up a purely innocuous reason to paint the unadorned human form?

As I read about the Mayan emphasis on sexual symbolism associated with their temples I realized that times have not changed. Modern man is no less captured with the very same demonic devotion to sacrificing our young virgins on the altar of sexual obsession. This is not really the meaning of this painting. It is only an afterthought to an otherwise wonderfully innocent scene.

Nine o’clock doesn’t mean much to folks along the Cayo road unless of course you happen to be Miss Gracie who likes to see the children arrive at school on time. Everyone else is content to wait until things happen as they well happen, and in good time.

Old Grandma Garbutt strokes her cat and waits for Elvira to come by with the latest gossip. Linny Banner was waiting for Ashworth Gillett to bring by a load of lumber so he could get started on his chicken coop but he said he would be here at 7:00 and it is already 9:00 and” ‘e no con yet.” He was rewarded for his wait however with a chance to watch Maria Gentle buy a watermelon, and what a melon, sweet, juicy and full of flavor.

Peter Shirk is waiting for his melons to sell. He left Barton Creek at 3:00 AM and wouldn’t mind getting back early to see that new colt that was born last night and treat the big milk cow for mastitis. In the mean time, however, watching Maria buy a melon wasn’t such a bad way to spend the time.

And everyone else is waiting for the Queen. She will be along soon, not a beautiful queen with flowing hair and a crown but a big, bulky noisy one, with a wide seat that accommodates three thin people and a narrow seat that accommodates one fat person. Woe unto the thin person that has to sit between two fat ones in the wide seat because there WILL be three in a seat. It would be better to stand in the crowded isle and hang on for dear life when the Queen rounds a curve. It is a good ride though with the breeze blowing in your face and the whiff of the ladies perfume mixing with the strong male scent of after shave cologne and cigarettes.

School children, commuters to the capital and house wives going up the road to visit friends all depend on the Queen. You can ride all the way from Tea Kettle to Belmopan for a shilling and all the way to Belize City for 75 cents. Well……..make that “could”. Those days are gone and the Queen is gone too.

It’s nine and change and yes, here she comes, belching smoke and grinding gears. There will be a stop about every half mile or nearly anywhere someone stands along the road and flags their arm up and down signaling the need for a ride.

The power boat slowed and idled on to the shore of the might river Usamacinta. Thankful at having finally arrived after 5 hours on the river, we climbed out of the boat and took in our surroundings, early evening at a site so remote there was virtually no sign of human occupation. A flock of macaws flew across the river, 16 to be exact. Howler monkeys called back and forth across the river. Toucans dipped and made their squeaky door hinge sound. It was a lot to absorb but the most amazing was yet to come.

We began a gentle climb at first that intensified as we entered the cloistered stone walled courtyards and passageways that lead into Yachchelan. A watchman appeared and took us to his little thatched shelter. He had been cooking over an open fire and was happy to offer uto us a cup of tea and his knowledge about this Maya site located on the border of Guatemala and Mexico.

It is close to sundown now and we must hurry to get a look at the ruin before dark. We move swiftly through narrow stone walled passage ways, korbel archways and chambers. Suddenly we left the walled enclave and broke out into an open space. Looking up I caught my breath. Standing at the foot of a very steep hill, I saw step after step leading up. At the top which seemed very far away was what appeared to be a temple punctuated as it were by the sun. Piercing through the bulk of the structure were stabs of light.

Slowly, almost reverently, we started the climb. It was steep but compelling. Step by step we approached the structure, half expecting the May King Bird Jaguar to emerge and demand our right to intrude, perhaps even order his guards to restrain us.

It is in this building on the door lintels that the images of Lady Choc and Bird Jaguar are found. There Lady Choc offers to her husband the king, a jaguar head to impart upon him prior to battle, the attributes of that mighty creature. Delicately carved into the limestone lintel is a pattern of the garment worn by Lady Choc. The artists care in rendering this detail of that culture and time spoke to me. Undoubtedly the patterns depicted had symbolic meaning but the beauty of the piece spoke loudly of the artist who carved those patterns in stone.

I’ve gotten myself involved in projects such as the carving of that intricate piece for the sole pleasure of an unappreciative king. Soon the mind starts to wander and as the tedious work progresses a lot of thought come and go. Every artist wonders about the endurance of their pieces and surely that artist must have taken great satisfaction in knowing that maybe a millennium from that day, someone would look at the work and marvel. How long would these efforts last? Who would see it and what would they think? Thoughts projected forward a thousand years to another artist who would look at the work and say “Well done”.

That artist would see and understand the symbolism and beauty of the pattern and adapt it to another project. The weaver in this painting is wearing a garment that has the same design as the stone lady above her. The weaver would appreciate the patience, perseverance and planning needed to complete the garment worn by the lady of stone.

Although the original intent of the stone lintel was to glorify a king, long after the king is dead and forgotten, his name ground into the powder of time, the beauty of design has survived. A certain flow of line, placement of shapes and balance has endured, its beauty unmarred

I take my place in a long line of artisans who have patiently carved, woven and painted, whether for their own enjoyment or the enhancement of others, the timeless designs that speak to the creative side of our nature. As the old Maya lady inserts the shuttle into the warp stretched on her loom and prepares to weave yet another pattern into the tapestry of time, I am reminded that all our lives are woven from the patterns of the lives of those who have gone before us.

The main contributor to modern day economies of developing countries is often tourism. Each year thousands of visitors come to Belize to see the local attractions and enjoy the natural beauty of our small nation. One of the primary attractions of Belize is the culture of the ancient indigenous people known as the Maya. The questions asked by the majority of those visitors after having actually climbed the temples and marveled at the astonishing structures, art work and traditions remaining is, “What happened to these people?”

That there are 21 surviving Maya dialects still being spoken and some 6,000,000 who call these dialects their first language comes as a great 0osurprise. How is it that this many people scattered through 5 countries have so little recognition or control over their lives? How did they go from the mighty empire builders of the Classic period to the down trodden silent minority of today’s Middle America?

It is the challenge of historians and archeologists to try to answer these questions but it seems they cannot agree on an explanation. What I have observed, however, is that the stones seem to be far more important to governments, grant programs and researchers than the people. Mayans help excavate the sites, act as guides and sell trinkets, weavings and crafts to the tourists and then in the evenings go home to their humble lives that are painfully trapped in poverty.

The man who posed for me for this painting worked as a thatcher, the ancient skill of making a roof from bay leaf palm. His classic face with features that faithfully describe his ancestral genes seemed to mirror those faces depicted on the stele carved in stone. It set my mind to thinking about the confusion that one encounters in trying to focus on the living Maya as the real representatives of the ancient past and therefore deserving at least as much consideration as the stones. Is not the greatest marvel of all that these people, although adrift in the tide of modern technology and greedy governance have retained their identity, languages and cohesiveness?

To the thousands of people who make the pilgrimage to Tikal, Xunantunich, Pelenque, Caracol, Chichanitza, Lubantun or the hundreds of other Maya sites, I say, appreciate the skill and artistry of those ancient people. Also imagine the little people that crept into the forest when the mighty leaders succumbed to the ills of war, disease, decadence, drought, pestilence or whatever it was that overcame them 1500 years ago. Without leadership, without anything except their knowledge of the jungle, they survived to this day. And their circumstances have not changed that much.

Flesh or stones. Which is more trustworthy to tell the story? Which shouts the loudest into our dull and disinterested ears? The stones shout out “I am what is left of a great people and culture. Understand me if you can.” The flesh and blood Maya are whispering the same.

The black howler monkeys are a fearsome lot at least audibly. Here on a rare 2nd full moon in 30 days, November 21st 2010, the river is silent and all else is awash with light. Jupiter is rising and not a leaf stirs. A magical mist envelops the moon and tells him to stop showing off.

The men came across the clearing carrying a writhing corn sack. It was the kind of scene that you don’t walk away from, 2 men carrying a jerking, distorted bag. Chepe released his grip on the opening and I stood transfixed waiting to see what was inside. They put the bag on the ground and waited for the movement to stop then very slowly opened the top so I could peer in. An expulsion of air came out, a great sound like the rushing of wind. I stepped back without seeing the source. Peeling the top of the bag back revealed a huge boa and when he emerged to go back to his hole under a giant rain tree, he was more than 12 feet long and a good 6 inches in diameter. The sunlight caught points on the scales, prisms flashing blue, purple and turquoise. An iridescent play of light over the moving form was both fascinating and frightening. That image was imprinted in my mind. He raised his head and expanded his mouth to give us that eternal sound of a mighty wind before he disappeared into the jungle. Overhead chaka lakas, the brown jay jungle sentinels screamed their warning disapproval.

Boas are beautiful and toucans are beautiful. The encounter that is the subject of this painting is the raw and unfortunate truth of the wild life; the life lived by the rules of the food chain. Why do such awesome creatures have to come to a point of conflict where there must be a death?

The toucan parents are not going to die. If they so choose, they can easily abandon their stance and take flight leaving the helpless nest to the intruder, nor is the boa going to die. Only the innocent will die. At risk here is procreation, the next generation destroyed for the sake of one meal. The price is so high for the benefit gained. What a waste of such beauty to sacrifice two baby toucans that took commitment and dedication to produce, and can decorate a stressed and troubled world, extracting awe from even the most staid observer, to the boa who is a casual albeit ruthless opportunist looking for what ever it might come across, which can survive, at most, three days on this nourishment.

Oh yes, the toucans can defend their nest. Their beak is a sword. Their strike is powerful. They can pick out the boa’s eyes. They can inflict serious wounds to its neck and head in that its kinetic energy is already expended in gripping the tree trunk. But will they stay and fight? Will they face the adversary with courage and determination? Do they have concern for their young? Is it true what I have witnessed, that they care for their mates and keep the same one returning to the same nest season after season?

Is it true that we humans enter into senseless conflicts where the price is far too high for the benefit gained? Are we capable of such serpentine, mindless behavior? Do we defend what is right and good or do we satisfy our appetites at great and insidious expense. Do we start wars, destroy homes and derail lives because we are hungry for the delectable, the bright, the beautiful and the innocent? In fact, will we sacrifice our very existence?

The Creole phrase “ketch ‘n kill” means, briefly to live for the moment, to grab is as it goes by. It is an attitude that does not plan for tomorrow but supplies the needs of the hour. It is more or less the way of the jungle.

This painting is about consequences of such thinking. It is about the milpera who clears a plantash (my spelling as the word is local). He invests minimal time, effort and money. No, cultivation, soil preparation or fertilizer is used. Just clear away the bush, poke the corn seed into the ground, step on it and wait. Usually because the land is so generous, he gets something in spite of wee wee, quash and pam pam.

Now the corn is dry, ready to “broke”, left in the field with the ear on the stock, bent down so that water sheds away from the kernels.

The peccary loves corn and his greed is exceeded only by his sense of decorum. He takes only the best, the fattest and fullest ears highest on the stock necessitating the stomping down of the whole plant. It would seem that the peccary is getting something for nothing which attracts the jaguar who normally stays well within the protection of the jungle but now lured by the sound of the breaking corn stocks and his hunger, finds himself in a corn field. He was thinking he would have to eat a lizard or a rat for dinner but to his delight he is only a few feet from his favorite food which is totally unaware of his presence.

The jaguar is no slouch but because of the uncertainty of his existence, he is forced to encroach on civilization. Although he is careful and smart, he is none the less, dependant on this system and his habit is to return to the place of easy food to “ketch n kill” again.

The milpera will return to find the havoc wrecked upon his corn by the peccary and the tracks left by the jaguar. He will storm back to his thatch house to find his shot gun. Some one is going to pay for this. Greed will bring the peccary back and desperation will bring the jaguar back too, wearing his $100 coat that some tourist might buy. The sad end to the story is that there never really is such a thing as something for nothing.

This event actually occurred at Banana Bank. I grew up in corn country and to me, seeing a jaguar in a corn field would be very surrealistic. A spotted tawny colored jaguar could hardly be seen in a dry corn field and would certainly be unexpected.

The day was perfect, completely cloudless sky and crisp, clean air. We arrived at Caracol in late afternoon. Climbing around the ruin and hearing the guide tell with sincerity, the activities of those who had lived there so long and I strained to catch a glimpse of them. As evening drew nigh, I could hear in the distance the macaws squawking, fighting among themselves and settling in for the night. I kept thinking some would fly over.

Even as I had longed to see the Maya in the temples so I had longed to see the gorgeous plumage and the silhouette of the big birds in flight across the jungle canopy. Perhaps I had only imagined I heard the squawking. After all, what evidence did I have other than my imagination?

I was determined to somehow make it come true. Yes, I did hear macaws. And in my mind I saw them. They were there as sure as the Maya had been there.

I had purchased a scarlet macaw in the states and also someone had given me one so, using my two as models, I set about doing this fantasy painting. I tried to imagine the place I would most like to be and the answer seemed obvious, right on the branch with the macaws, of course.

It is late afternoon. A shower has just passed. It is time to settle in for the evening. In the fading light I think I see movement down below. Yes, there is a procession coming from the left. The day is April 15th A.D. 556. I squint to see better. I can hear nothing but the beating wings of the macaws and their loud calls. The procession appears to be a celebration of sorts by some of the members with hands raised, dancing and cavorting. Others are obviously bound and with heads bowed, appear to be in intense anguish. There is a chaise born by four men. Inside is someone of importance. It would be Lord Water and the occasion is the defeat of Tikal by Caracol, this being the triumphal return by warriors and king.

Night falls. The macaws are silent. The distant fires on the temple are smoldering and I am getting sleepy. It is time to put the brushes aside and put the lids back on the tubes of paint.

To come forth, to rise or to come out into view from a place of relative safety, a step forward into the challenges that lie ahead, defines the term. Every day we are called upon to come forth, out of the privacy of our inner self to deal with life, step into the hardness of reality.

This painting is about that process. The Margay is a creature endowed with some unique qualities that make it among the most elusive and enduring of any jungle dweller. The pattern of its fur blends perfectly with the mottled shades of a tree. Razor sharp, long claws assist it to be a much more skillful climber than its relative, the ocelot and is sometimes called the tree ocelot because of this ability. Whereas the ocelot mostly pursues prey on the ground, the margay may spend its entire life in the trees, leaping after and chasing birds and monkeys through the treetops. Indeed, it is one of only two cat species with the ankle flexibility necessary to climb head-first down trees (the other being the clouded leopard.) It is remarkably agile; its ankles can turn up to 180 degrees. It can grasp branches equally well with its fore and hind paws. Long and sinewy legs allow a margay to jump up to 12 feet horizontally. The margay has been observed to hang from branches with only one foot. In addition to all this, its enormous eyes equip it with extraordinary night vision.

When we consider how God has equipped His creatures to deal with the reality of their environment, their real world, we have to wonder how and why we humans are so vulnerable, so prone to attack and defeat. Or, could it be that we prefer a flashy coat to a mottled one, a super highway and a jump joint to the tree tops? Maybe we just don’t like to be where we were designed to be, in the protective covering of God’s grace and mercy, living with His timing and plans as our direction. Then emergence into and grasping on to the reality of life would not so brutal and pointless. We could better handle those times when the last “E” in our emergence becomes a “Y”.

The black and white hawk eagle is a rare sight at Banana Bank. When one started canvassingthe area, it caught the attention of even those who do not normally notice birds.. As he perchedon a high branch in a tall tree, his large size and distinctive markings spoke a certain messagebut we didn’t read the script.

The mealy parrot was sitting on a post near the chicken coop preening his feathers.. A piece of chicken wire clung to the post and in the fashion of most back yards, dropped and sagged from obvious neglect, sheltering some baby chicks from the hot sun. Suddenly with no warning the parrot screamed and the sound became airborne. In disbelief I watched as the hawk eagle rose higher and higher, with his cargo, a flapping blur of bright green. The screaming stopped, Francisca’s pet of several years was obviously headed for the great beyond. The big bird circled higher. Suddenly a green parcel fell from the sky and with some flapping sufficient to break the fall, hit the ground. Everyone within earshot rushed to the injured bird that was flailing helpless, one wing pitifully limp. His eyes were bright however and whenhis owner extended a hand, the bird put his beak on the finger and pulled himself up. Carefullywe looked for injury as there was no blood to be seen. Very slowly we raised the droopywing to reveal a gash about two inches long.

The wound, although large, was not deep, and the parrot lived. The hawk eagle stayed for afew more days and then left.

The incident has been an encouragement to me at times when I have felt like giving up. Onething I know is that the hawk eagle did not accidently drop the parrot. His talons were firmlyembedded but somehow the parrot even as the end seemed inevitable, was able to force theeagle to let him go, perhaps by biting him on the tendon that runs from the back toe of thethree towed foot and strengthens the eagle’s powerful grip.

At times in life I’ve been carried away. Circumstances beyond my control transported me highabove my ability to cope. Usually flapping and flailing causes the adversary to tighten hisgrip had only serves to deepen the wound. Panic sets in and precious time and energy is wasted. The answer is usually to seek out that very small point of truth, grab on to that and bear down, gripping harder and harder until all those inner doubts, fears, lies,self pity, lame excuses, should have done’s, might have been’s, hate, resentment, jealousy,anger are forced to loosen their grip. There will be a dizzying plunge to reality and probably some talon marks but with that a new confidence, an awareness of the sanctity of life, and the assurance that I am a victor rather than a victim.

The cords that hold society together are often tied to the places people meet and share their joys and sorrows. Church and civic centers provide these opportunities, as do markets. This market was the pulse of Belize City. Ladies came to buy and gossip. Men told a story or two, visited and harped on social issues. People exchanged a smile as well as a few coins. Open markets are known the world over as the place to buy more cheaply those things locally made

Yvette came to buy fish and encountered her brother-in-law who is not in fact her brother-in-law, but her man’s step-brother, but in Belize, such details are not important. We’re all more or less family anyway, or so it used to be.

Markets do, however, have a peculiar smell: that pungent mixture of meat a bit too warm, vegetables overripe and sweat. It is the kind of uncomplicated baseness that makes city planners squirm. Surely, tidier is better. This usually means destroying the offensive and erecting something new in its place. It is hard, however to construct a pulse.

This market went the way of Fredrick Westby: both of them are dead now. The pillars, reportedly from a dismantled English train station, have probably been thrown in a heap somewhere. I’m not sure if Fred was in favor of preservation or demolition, but long live the political system that supports preservation of culture.

All that’s left of this place are the memories in old ladies” heads as they prop their arthritic hands on their stiff knees. Oh, well, neither can we ride anymore to Chetumal for $2.50 B.H. round trip.

ALBERT STREET IS FULL OF CHARACTER, THE MAIN CENTER OF ACTIVITY IN THE CITY WHERE ALL TYPES OF PEOPLE RUB ELBOWS. THE RICH AND POOR, YOUNG AND OLD ALL HAVE BUSINESS HERE. BRIGHT COLORS SHOUT THE FUN OF YOUTH, FRESH RIPE AND SWEET.

THINGS ARE CHANGING ON ALBERT STREET. OLD WAYS ARE PASSING LIKE THE PACE OF THE MULE AND CART, SLOW BUT SURE AND MODERN WAYS AND PRODUCTS ARE ELBOWING IN. THE OLD MARKET IN THE BACKGROUND IS NOW GONE.

RIVULETS OF TIME MARK OLD SUPAL’S FACE. HIS EAGERNESS TO SELL THE PLASTIC AND YARN BAUBLES SEEMS LOST ON LITTLE ABIGAIL AS SHE STUDIES HIS FACE WITH A CHILD’S INTRIGUE. HUMAN NATURE IS, HOWEVER, MORE OFTEN DRAWN TO THE BRIGHT, BEAUTIFUL, COLORFUL AND YOUNG WHILE THE OLD, DULL THINGS SIT UNNOTICED IN THE SHADOWS. THIS CAN APPLY TO THE ELDERLY AMONG US AS WELL.

WOULD THAT WE, LIKE ABIGALE, NOT MISS THE REWARD OF LOOKING PAST THE HIGH SHINE OF “YOUNG” TO CHERISH THE SOFT PATINA OF AGE.